Introductory
Remarks about this section: This section
will feature contemporary poetry -- and accompanying poetics / essay / journal
writing, when possible -- translated into English from other languages.
If you are translating work, please propose your ideas to our on-going translation
coordinator: Cole Swenson, <xoxcole@cs.com>

featuring
poems by Patrizia VicinelliTranslated by Carla Billitteri

Translator's
Note

Patrizia
Vicinelli (1943-91) joined the predominantly male avant-garde Group
'63 at the La Spezia Congress in 1966. She was previously involved in
the experimental theatre of Aldo Braibanti and first published her poetry
in EX, a magazine of multimedia and experimental arts edited by
Emilio Villa.

Vicinelli's
poetry challenges the reader with a stunning combination of multisemantic,
asyntactical playfulness and witty polyglottism, often presenting a seamless
interweaving of five languages (Spanish, English, Italian, French, Hebrew),
different Italian regional dialects, street jargons and local idiolects.Vicinelli
is bitter, satirical, pervasively political, but also melodramatic, fascinated
by the urban mythologies of W. S. Burroughs' junky underworld as well
as by the arcane quest for the Holy Grail, and by Greek archetypes and
marginal cultures.

Friday
domani abbaabb
a do mani yes he said
and he says yes, it was something between inside and you
rather the world and myself and yourself
abba, dors, maintenant,
abba do mani he
said the sculpture ahj,
come m'endorme exquisido, como
iaculatoria, abb a do
mani, yes, sleep now,
what matters the world between me and youc'entra c'en tra
the evangel of languages
idiomes èvangèliques elle dit abba do
main no to day after the world
now the world
surrounded in the present ab ba he says
yes como me gusta el mundo says
me deca decame, en nel mundo
abba in and out within and without

(1988)

I
will not return

I
will not return.Over
the bridges in flamesin
the summerthe
moon shinesshinestriped
narrow shoestobe
seen ongelid
deserted squaresin
the winter their neglectof
time could indicatea
fair beginningbut
under this climate senseits
scarcityI
promisedI
will never return there.I
go againstand
stand upright
againstthe
furnace abysswhat
a hiccupfrom
singular approachingto
have itconditioned
in the mindthe
broken timethe
used up timewe
are on loannow.The
solitary night adumbratesthis
sound that is alreadytwentieth
centurywhat
are the little pearls doingadorningus
who sweatfrom
every pore sadnesswhat
patternof
relentless spots.There
would be another courseto
followlong
difficult imperviousswallowingto
senddownsalivabilemorselsthat
sometimes happenthey
happen sometimes.Low
key notes all of themabysmal
deterioratedthe
air is scorchingwhen
it burns youthe
bitter sun in black.Brooches
fissureschapletsour
the sandal incense riseseveryone
stands uplike
flowers in linein
their ascension the heightin
extendingin
unfolding.

The
first time was in Florence, and it remained the last. The bloodthen
was clearbeating
on the heart never triedfew
the adepts and the scared neophytesto
find out and catch the sense.In
the dark house, so underground,the
light is on even during the daythe
windows are covered with oriental curtainsand
barred, a basement, made forfugitives,
he said, dearly bought,reassuring
architectonic frame,Mitteleuropean,
the Polish man added,sweating
in the soaked bed twelve hoursuninterrupted
"my legs, señor,my
legs!" are you sleeping?ARE
YOU STILL SLEEPING? A stinking agony,in
the known castling duston
the mirror on the walls blotchesof
cappuccino up to the ceiling, butchampagne
in the fridge, caviar from Ostiasandwich
prosciutto, thanks, crudo,thanks
tramezziniI
AM NOT HUNGRY
I AM NOT HUNGRY
I AM NOT HUNGRY

They
all wanted to go there, awayfrom
the blotches on the foul mattressesof
sweat and blood, this judgment wepass
conformed to the apocalypse,enough
she said centering a point of silencethe
perfect absence emitting a crythat
was heard up in the skieslike
a successful meditationOh,
lord, want you buy me a color tv . . .chant
d'amourgenet
knows itI
want to fall into the sunso
that not a trace will be leftthe
deepest motivations, yes,of
love."I
will tell everything" in the crystal cupI
keep the pearls I want to give you.The
formula goes like that: open doorbeyond
the shadows' reign.(he
was full like a stuffed pig)he
had thought of keeping it all for himself .In
the ice, got there with the ideaof
sailing, a kite is enoughfor
that, he was a manwho
had forgotten his originsran
only after his desires,like
Egyptians led by a dolphinon
the barge of the snake with the eggat
the prow, in the gelid waters of the riversubterranean
with golden makeup on the mind,the
dream that had revealed to him the deadto
remember."NO
PRIVILEGES," he would have likedmore
consistent signs"do
not step back" the girl saidto
Orpheus, but what sacred mountain,Elizabeth
Queen condemned manythis
year as well:HOW
NOT TO BE SAVED? he thought, wishingto
dilate his pupils to seehis
image leaning against the imagesof
some remote time with worn out borderswhen
an eclipse swallowedthat
abnormal thoughtof
his selves or him selfthat
chased each other endlesslyhe
saw HIS CONTOURS DISTENDING"we
must go" said the friend"let's
continue"they
came in to have coffeeand
he corrected himself saying "hail mary oh"to
that woman who overheard himand
stopped in her walk, etc."NO,
big dick of a knight"They
arrived in Jerusalem when it washardly
daylight(in
the ruinous midst of the falling of a thousand towers,while
on the other side or nearbyBabel
remained intact and shouting).It
was an epic transition.His
mother would have liked a mercymore
generous but from the body it diedto
the soul to hope itself,Marcel
who sustained her, recorded everythingand
stored the stories in the safe,but
who did not try to elevatetheir
own god myths some asthey
tried to escape when it happenedin
others sitting in a circle on the remains of firein
a round grovewhere
already many were killedwafts
the taste of vengeanceand
of treason.In
the slow osmosis that prefigureda
long trip,even
by climbing hedid
not manage to progress,she
shouted, soaked in blood and sherry:"DON'T
YOU HAVE ENOUGH OF IT?"many
heard her, slaves Aslatians Moorsfull
of borgogne, Tyroleses camping,of
unsurpassable cleannesscard
players with loaded guns EMBRACE
OR I WILL SHOOT THE SEVEN SHOTS
I HAVE LEFT."It
was such a great reunion, likeanother
time at the corner of the desert,drunken
sailors hamlet and marylinand
others who will return outsidememory
of their resplendent passagewe
were and are pursued by a herdof
those who want to know at any costand
will never knowoh,
heaven! with the refrain of lightthat
slides every morning from my windowon
the world,I
looked at it incandescent reborn.He
let it go down hoping the putrefactionwas
over, he set off.Over
yonder there's some people who never dreamtI
will tell everything everything if there's need(do
not torture me, officer, I do not know anythingI
do not know anything, I will not speak, will not speak)"do
we need hot water?""we
need salt""do
we need incense,?""DO
WE NEED a good runner?"In
the meanwhile some others had woken upfor
this appointment everybody remembered. He
tried again in vain to transcend the circumstances
knowing the inevitability of a certain endinganother
step almost dance moved himfaking
forwardand
sucked him backwardas
by a potent trumpet of iron.elusive
rays descendedinvading
the plane of elementssome
cried some did notmany
procreated between one ring and anotherof
the trunk markedtheir
passage each for themselves,then
a chant beganand
insinuated itself, carried by the echo of that absenceof
sounds that favors it trippingonly
on the metallic barrierthat
out of spite was buildinga
solitary walker loverof
something in particular.Purple
plums, and by chance purple violetsfell
to his feet,specific
meaning that color for his mindand
the sweet smell like boiled sugarand
perfumed jasmineinvaded
his space, surrounded him.He
met with winners and losers, whose aimwas
to tell what had happened."if
I do not fall asleep thinks the soldier,I
could be anywhere."He
placed himself waiting certain he could enterin
some other reality more qualified.The
circle, so that the fact could yield good results,was
not easy to build, after allthe
presence of a slave para-ionicwas
indispensable, and that timewas
not missing: he ought to unveil everythingor
otherwise . . .He
too, in a desolate world, AFTERa
war of avarice and privilege,dragged
a woman, the only one leftby
her blond hair, toward the goal.WHAT
SHALL WE DO WITH YOUR BREAD, MONSIGNOR,AT
THIS POINT?ANCHOVIES
AND SALMON WANTS SAINT GEORGE
TO KILL THE DRAGON AND SAVE
THE PEOPLE FROM THE PLAGUE.Yet,
beyond the cableway, Joe Nabshines
in a gilded palace.His
women laugh and are pregnant,they
have little shoes of lunar metal.If
I ever enter there I want to be king, of myselfchampion.Remain
awakethe
blind the crippled the gluttonsplay
soccerDO
NOT HELP THEMSELVES AT ALL, ONE ENORMOUSWITH
A CLOAK, who already made the passfrom
year to year, governs,EVERYONE
IS HEARD DECLARING THE NEEDOF
UNIVERSE.From
the knight, refreshed by a fountain nearby,a
nightmare escaped and the knight was really glad.He
said: "if I find a sword I can freethe
earth from the magic of THE DOUBLE.""DUB-FACE
he said it is not good for you."It
goes without saying that swords were no longer made;but
there was one in Sidney in a safe.It
is always possible to find somebody ON COMMISSIONwho
is willing to do SUCH A JOB.The
appointment was founded on the tendencyof
some to go there."this
time we can make it" saidmany,
with the feeling of participatingin
an arcane alchemic processfrenzy
and excessive credulity,the
spring of their action.To
many questions, clear answers in such mannerrevolutions
were put in motion,and
with the same method they were halted.Still
a light sense of triumph waftedslightly
inhibited,amongst
the examiners and the examinee.The
meteorological angels, municipal policemen andgarbage
collectors, confounded ideaswith
a precise design signalingnon-existent
reasons of inattentionbut
the moment gravitated of truth and urgency.Savages
gathered with nonchalance small pebblesfrom
the foaming soil and hid them.Some
bikers around the Bavarianpatisserie
suddenly touched their tightsand
delicate points around the groinsand
transcended in libidinous acts.At
first nobody noticed.Nobody
could have anticipated it, theyall
thought afterward.Even
some skaters with pink-and-white tutuswere
suddenly tiredof
that hobbydisrobed
themselves and threw theircostumes
in round holes dug for the occasionthat
led to the waterinto
which the skaters immersed themselves, naked.(Resurfaced
hissing immediately young sirensof
pricey songs to the sailors who will beship-wrecked.)All
at once a sorrowful lament provoked apervasive
sadness. LIKE IT HAPPENS WITH
ONE WHO HAS JUST REALIZED.IT
TOOK ONLY A MOMENT.That
smile idiotic and stereotyped sofashionable
in California and then all over the worldtook
its place again on those large stupefied faces."what
we want to see is the king!",they
cried (on the wrong track)'what
we want to know is God!"they
threatened "we want everything!""who
am I?"these
were some of the most widespread slogans.Famous
actors artists musicians poetsand
a few architects of museums, a fewowners
of old cemeterieshad
turn up to get the newsthey
wanted to be updated.Well,
the auction of the spies combinedwith
the necklaces and flags provokedsome
commotion, the green striped spyof
two hundred kilos was sold to a breakerof
horses together with a small jazz orchestrafrom
Manhattan.In
order to go live in Texas, watchsome
corrida, eat roast beef Indian-stylesodapopcorn
sitting at night in a drive-inthe
spy who had lived as lady companion,exx-ceppt-ional!!"PEACE,
BOYS, PEACE! WE HAVE STUDIEDTHIS
JUST FOR YOU! TO GIVE YOUA
GOOD TIME!!!"If
he had announced "our creation" perhapsthey
would have felt disoriented. But notthe
chelsea boys, however full of vitaminsof
astral taste as advertised,made
to compute algebra and profitthey
only cared about staying in New York."to
arrive to the central point the pointwithin
the point" you could read this sloganon
black bomber jackets with shining studs."IF
I WERE TO ASK YOU WHERE IS OUR CULTURE,
WHERE IS IT?" said the top ten single of that day.More
to follow.

BIO:
Carla Billitteri teaches in the English Department of the University
of Maine, Orono. She has recently edited, translated and introduced the
Italian section of 99 Poets/1999: An International Poetics Symposium,
published in Boundary2, Spring 1999. Her other translations of
contemporary Italian poetry have appeared in Rif/t; I am a Child:
Poetry After Robert Duncan and Bruce Andrews (Buffalo: Tailspin Press,
1995) and Private Arts.

Cole Swenson --
Translation Coordinator

Cole Swenson
is a poet and translator of contemporary French poetry. Her translation
of Olivier Cadiot's Art Poetic was published this year by Sun &
Moon Press. Recent volumes of her own work include Try (University
of Iowa Press, 1999) and Noon (Sun & Moon Press, 1997). She
currently directs the Creative Writing Program at the University of Denver.